


the colour of grief

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Basically, Louis is a UNI student, M/M, and stuff happens, harry is a fucked up artist, mention of death but nothing serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:06:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He decides he hates the colour purple - its texture, its hue, the way it feels like three in the morning and early morning coffee and muffled laughter and sore lovebites and Technicolour fingers and Harry.</em>
</p><p>harry is an artist, louis just wants to sleep, and accidents involving buckets of purple paint are just things that happen</p>
            </blockquote>





	the colour of grief

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally just supposed to be cute angsty artist harry ft. university student louis, but it evolved into this and idk why it did but i’m sorry and i hope u enjoy

Nighttime is an anthology of grey ash and silence and seven hours of celestial tragedy.

This is why, at two in the morning, Louis is sprinting down the street wielding a brown paper bag full of groceries that he really should have retrieved from Tescos when the sky was a bit brighter, he thinks, but then midnight came along and the universe wanted too much.

The constellations and the moon are too close and their lines are too sharp, too definite, and Louis' head is spinning as he swipes his phone from his back pocket to look at the time. And he’s looked at it four times in the past five minutes so he knows that it’s two in the morning but he thinks that, maybe, if he looks one more time, the world will take it easy on him and set time back a few hours so he has enough time to slip into bed.

Louis concludes that he’s either incredibly unlucky or the world is just an asshole.

It could easily be the latter but it could also be the first, because Louis is still staring at his phone screen until the numbers blur together, so he fails to acknowledge the shriek of _oh, fuck_ that chimes through the air like a classical arrangement and the wave of purple that bleeds into him six feet from the ground.

_“I thought I had killed you,” Harry tells him later as they’re staring at the blank, untouched ceiling of Harry's flat which reminds Louis of a bruise before its blossom, their fingers entwined and their hearts in the same state. “You were lying on the ground covered in that fucking paint, your eyes wide and the bucket four feet from your body, and I was horrified and humiliated and all I could do was laugh.”_

Currently, Louis is living inside the memory of an accidental purple paint crime scene; inside the boy with dark curls and dried watercolour fingers and eyes full of fear, staring at a bewildered Louis Tomlinson from a refuge of scaffolding and star stains.

\- -

Harry Styles apologizes seven times exactly and this isn’t counting the fleeting seconds where he’s silent over the phone line and all Louis can hear is his cautious breathing.

(To this day, Louis isn’t sure how Harry got his phone number. He simply assumes that Harry was caught in the rush of apologizing and introducing himself all at the same time, in which he infamously introduced himself as _Hi, my name is Sorry and I am very Harry_ , and Louis still laughs about it to this day, especially when he’s supposed to be sleeping.

Harry never gave any clarification, either, except for the fact that it “took him a very long fucking time because do you even know how many Tomlinsons there are in the telephone directory, Louis” and the brief synopsis of his obsessions with painting the sides of buildings past midnight with the company of nothing but a pair of headphones.)

When the phone comes to life for the eighth time in two days Louis is quick to answer, his hair freshly wet from a shower and wearing nothing but his underwear. “You have a problem,” He tells Harry and it’s quickly followed by a sigh, but it’s not born of exasperation and the two boys know that, so it gives Harry bravado, and he fires back with “Of course I have a problem. I’m an artist, Lou.”

Louis closes his eyes and can’t help but think that this is all one colossal, fortunate mistake.

\- -

A week later, Louis finds himself pacing his bedroom at three in the morning with the moon enormous and whitewashing through the window. It must be impending some form of doom, he thinks, and he slips into a jumper before stepping outside to vanish within the brisk autumn air.

Over the years of living by himself, he’s gotten to know the cashier working the night shift at Tescos quite swimmingly. Although Louis wouldn’t call her a friend (he’s too awkward to ask her for her name at this point), he knows that she likes stories and bad jokes, so he decides to amuse her while she rings him up.

She tosses a light piercing-marked grin in his direction as he explains the humor of tonight’s chosen knock-knock joke, and then she tells him that _it’s kind of weird that you’re buying five bags of chocolate chip cookies, you know_. He explains that they’re for a friend, and slips in a _don’t judge me_ when she stares at him with a raised eyebrow, holding a box of paint tubes in one arm and twelve packages of newspaper in the other.

“We have a book called Asking Out An Artist For Dummies in the book section. Comes in hardcover and paperback,” She remarks flippantly, and Louis wants to correct her, wants to say _but no, okay, he’s not only an artist, though? He’s an insomniac and he illegally paints the sides of buildings, I’m just trying to break his habit_ but she wouldn’t understand, so instead he snorts into his hand.

\- -

“I can’t believe you,” Harry says, his hands covered in blue and his sweatshirt flecked with yellow spots. There’s green smeared on the brick wall, and Louis decides to focus on its blurred edges when he confesses, “I didn’t think you’d be awake at three in the morning, honestly.”

There are dark rings outlining Harry’s eyes and colour chrome dotting the space where a crater appears in his left cheek. Louis deems it odd and impolite to stare, so he sets the Tescos bag down on the paint splattered ground and pretends to be breath taken by that fucking smear of green that’s running miles down bricks and is too close to the red of Harry’s lips.

Finally, Harry breaks the silence, wipes his colour coated hands on the back of his jeans, raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t call out the grin on Louis' face, nor does he comment on Louis' shopping impulses (to which Louis is thankful for.) Harry begins putting lids on paint cans, smiles kindly, and then he runs a hand through his hair and asks, “Want me to walk you home?”

\- -

The stars are swinging low, and there’s a stale ribbon of unintended gold in Harry’s hair, so naturally, they don’t make it to Louis' house.

Louis' fucked several writers and numerous university students placed in various majors before, but never an artist, so Louis has the honour of uncovering freckles of watercolour accidents in the crook of Harry’s neck and inside his collarbone.

(Making love on a sea of newspapers is different. There’s a woman painted in blue watching them from the wall, and countless amounts of empty canvases witnessing Harry bent over and hollering, and it’s peculiar and perplexing but clearly Harry is an eccentric human being so Louis just rolls with it.

They manage to get through sex without any major casualties except for Louis getting his elbow lodged in a circle of mixed colour and Harry somehow getting the side of his face marked with charcoal.)

And they bleed together seamlessly: Louis takes Harry apart and puts him back together, not stopping until Harry’s hands are trapped in Louis' hair and he’s screaming into Harry’s shoulder, moaning so loudly that the mere sound of it nearly sends Louis off the edge. It doesn’t, however, so when Louis is finished, Harry takes him with fingers dyed in blue.

“Nice,” is what Harry says after watching Louis come undone. He runs his tongue over Louis' lower lip, sighs. “I think we left the Tescos bag behind, though.”

Louis groans. “That’s fine.”

\- -

“You’ve stopped going to Tescos,” is what Zayn observes when Louis trudges into his evening class that following Monday. Zayn is a lifesaver when it comes to _oh fuck, I forgot to copy last week’s session of notes_ but, on the other hand, Zayn also works at the place Louis recedes to practically every night, and therefore, holds a pretty significant spot in Louis' life.

Louis tries to point out that it’s only been four days, but Zayn is not having it, so Louis resorts to sitting through his evening class under watchful eyes and unspoken assumptions instead of dealing with the topic at hand.

 _It’s been four days_ , he can’t help but think, and there’s still been no word from Harry. But that’s okay, because Louis hasn’t made any effort to contact him either, so maybe he just doesn’t care.

And that’s the tricky thing about one night stands; you can’t tell, during the aftermath, if the absence of feeling is a counterfeit of real emotion, or simply the inability to care.

\- -

At two thirty in the morning three days later, Louis is making a hasty pot of coffee with a procrastinated essay and unfinished project on his mind, and that’s probably why he forgets to look at the clock to check the time like he used to.

The coffee is bitter and tasteless and Zayn texts him with the burning question of _why the fuck aren’t you here, it’s nearly three in the morning_ , but at that point, Louis is already climbing into bed and reaching over to shut off the light.

\- -

(A week passes before Louis is unable to sleep again. In the midst of a Friends marathon, he suddenly comes to the conclusion that there isn’t nearly enough popcorn to last him through the next season, so he ventures out of his flat at half past midnight.

There’s a short line at Tescos checkout and Louis is standing in the back, feeling rather resentful and untired as he clutches four bags of popcorn, and when he looks to the front of the line, an unexpected row of paint brushes followed by the _I’m holding you all up and I am so sorry about this but I ran out of paint, so please at least try to understand_ in the pattern of Harry’s voice catches his attention.)

\- -

“You’ve got a pretty big dick,” remarks Harry as he makes obnoxious noises while inhaling handfuls of popcorn. Louis notices that he has paint stuck in his hair again, and he toys with the purple section, marvelling at how he manages to look like a work of art even at five in the morning when he clearly has not slept in days.

Louis snatches the bag of popcorn, holds it away and out of Harry’s reach. He protests, and Louis says, “Don’t get so cocky, you’re eating popcorn that I paid for.” The other rolls his eyes, presses their hands together, and whines, “Fuck me,” his grin a tiny bit too lopsided, particles of stardust swimming in his irises. 

And Louis complies, not because he wants to, absolutely not, but because Harry asked so politely. 

\- - 

“I’m awake,” Harry says at eleven in the morning the next day, attaching himself to Louis' arm, who is standing at the kitchen counter looking through the cupboards. “Give me attention.” 

Louis throws Harry a glance over his shoulder, and he tries to feel disgusted or annoyed, he really does, but Harry’s hair is disheveled and his eyes are too wide and his lips are too swollen, so Louis decides to make out with him instead, pushing him against the wall and sucking on his lower lip. 

They spend the rest of the day curled up on Harry’s couch watching MTV, and Louis hates it but Harry doesn’t seem to mind, so he deals with it. Every so often they’ll catch each others eye and, coincidentally, grind the other into the sofa, and soon enough the time comes for Louis to go home but he doesn’t exactly want to, not yet, so they make out some more.

\- -

Zayn texts Louis again two days later with _ok but i saw you leaving tescos with the smiling painter kid explain immediately_. Louis lets a couple minutes pass, stares at the grey message bubble until it smudges, chews on his lower lip thoughtfully.

His apartment phone comes to life, loudly announcing an incoming phone call with unnecessary emphasis, so he quickly replies with _He’s a really good artist_ because it’s better than _oh haha that’s harry we’re not dating he’s just my scheduled three am fuckbuddy and the sex is mindblowing but sometimes I find dried rainbows in my hair and they’re a pain in the ass to wash out tbh_.

Louis locks his phone before Zayn can reply, slips the apartment phone off the wall and says, “If you’re calling me because you got caught by the authorities for painting a building, I’m not bailing you out of jail,” to which Harry laughs and explains that, no, he hasn’t, but he’s travelling soon to be with his family and he wouldn’t mind having Louis' number.

Harry tops it off with, “You know, so we can sext at three in the morning.”

\- -

Because Harry has been AWOL for a day and a half, Louis has faith that the Tescos Cashier Lady will be successful in keeping him company at two am when he strolls up to the counter with a jug of milk. He explains this to her, and she raises an eyebrow, scans the milk, bags it.

“Isn’t Harry Styles the kid who lost his shit at the university and had to take a year off?” She asks him, waiting patiently while Louis fishes his wallet out of his back pocket. “The art major that was found on campus after hours? He was doing spray paint graffiti on the windows or something, I remember.”

Louis pauses, his wallet halfway out of his pocket, searches her expression to see if she’s joking. She hums, tells him that _yeah, my sister graduated from that same university a few months ago_ , and clarifies that yes, it was definitely a Harry Styles she was talking about. Went crazy, she said, took a year off because things were rough with his family or something, moved in with his father not too long ago.

He listens to what she’s saying, nods when he’s supposed to, runs his hand through his hair. Pays, takes the bag and prays to every entity he can bring to mind that she can’t see his hands are shaking.

Because shit, if Harry was supposed to already be living with his family, and he’s living alone, obviously he must have ran away or something stupid - something only Harry would think about doing, and where is he now, and Louis takes out his phone, tries to send Harry a text, he really does, but deletes what he’s started and wills his heart to stop pounding, wills his breathing to stop sounding so loud.

\- -

“Maybe he moved out of his parents’ house,” is what Zayn uses as an excuse that following Tuesday when Louis is supposed to be studying for an exam but is deciding, instead, to think about Harry again, thinks about how Harry left a week ago and hasn’t contacted Louis since, contemplates logical explanations and struggles to reason with himself that everything is fine.

Louis says nothing and maybe that’s the best thing to do at this point, because his coffee has gone untouched even though he ordered it half an hour ago and he’s fretting over an immature painter that managed to knock a full can of neon purple paint onto an innocent pedestrian as a first impression.

He decides he hates the colour purple - its texture, its hue, the way it feels like three in the morning and early morning coffee and muffled laughter and sore lovebites and Technicolour fingers and Harry.

\- -

[15/10/15 23:02 PM] (Saved in Drafts)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

Can you call m

 

[15/10/15 23:44 PM] (Saved in Drafts)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

Okya so I’ve been drikngn a litle bti?? I’m kidn of worri

 

[15/11/15 01:09 AM] (Saved in Drafts)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

Harry its ben e a week nad half where are y

 

[15/11/15 01:11 AM] (Saved in Drafts)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

I’m so confuse dnad scarcd Harry ple

 

[15/11/15 01:12 AM] (Saved in Drafts)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

Did I say somethn I’m sor

 

[15/11/15 02:21 AM] (Saved in Drafts)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

Please com bakc

 

[15/11/15 15:04 PM] (Sent)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

Just checking in! :-)

\- -

The cashier at Tescos does have a name, apparently: Sarah, which reminds Louis of flowers and P!ATD, so he (unsuccessfully) attempts to detach the band from the name because he remembers that Harry used to hum “Sarah Smiles” under his breath when he added vibrancy to his apartment walls.

(It’s been three weeks since Harry’s gone missing, and Louis tries to come up with several excuses as to why Harry isn’t home yet but is beginning to struggle to think of any more since he’s losing hope, since Harry said he’d be back during the second week.

He’s only sent two texts, both of which were acutely thought over and edited beforehand, to which Harry never replied.)

Sarah isn’t exactly helpful in Louis' situation; she shrugs, perks an eyebrow, rings him up swiftly and tells him eloquently, “I told you before that he’s insane.” She sounds sick of his late night complaints and to be completely honest, Louis is growing tired of them too.

On the way back to his flat, he passes Harry’s painting spot purely due to muscle memory, and there’s no reason why he should be doing it at all, but he runs his fingers over the ghost of Harry’s paintbrush, holds his breath, stays there for a second too long.

\- -

The month of winter comes in smooth, steadfast waves, and it darkens and smothers and carries the scintilla of melancholia. Louis hates winter, hates everything about it, hates the cold, hates the sadness, hates the fact that Harry is still missing after three weeks.

There’s a tiny amount of snow trickling from the sky, circling like smoke, looming. Louis hardly notices when Zayn nudges his shoulder and invites him for coffee after class but when he does, he accepts, can’t help but think that he really shouldn’t be going out for coffee when there’s a silhouette of a missing person standing on the back of Louis' mind as if edging their way off a cliff.

It’s unfair, really, since Louis never intended on falling for Harry in the first place but recently he hasn’t been able to care about anything else but him.

\- -

In the safety of Starbucks seating booths, Zayn reminds Louis that he should probably call the police at this rate. The mug in Louis' hands is warm, and he presses his fingertips into the ceramic until his skin is searing and burning, but it’s a distraction from the memory of Harry’s lips on his and the way Harry’s laugh would roll off of Louis' ears like an ocean of velvet.

This is what he clings to, the mulling of Harry and the pull of the ocean, because the ocean carries the tide and the tide always comes back and always comes home and always makes a mess of everything, always always always.

\- -

On the other side of the street, opposite the cars roaring past and kicking up grey snow and dirt as they fly by, is Louis' university. When the light turns green and everybody begins walking, Louis is close to follow and he keeps his eyes ahead of him as he does.

He’s thinking about studying, because that’s all that matters these days - coffee, studying, caffeine and close knit words tattooed onto a crisp white stack of papers. Maybe if Louis had decided to look down at his feet or up to the sky bleeding white he wouldn’t have seen the glimpse of dark hair and a black jacket.

Maybe he wouldn’t have inhaled so sharply and maybe he wouldn’t have lunged across the street, shouting with his arms outstretched and maybe he would have just gone home and studied to the rhythm of the ever growing hole the size of Harry’s dimple in his chest. Maybe, probably.

Instead, he chooses to charge, all fluttering heartbeat and wide eyes, his body colliding into the smaller figure that had previously been walking down the snow stained streets.

And Harry, Harry says nothing. He grasps two fistfuls of Louis' sweatshirt and breathes, all shaky and vulnerable, and Louis says nothing because he can’t think of anything that would even begin to summarize the drafts hiding in his phone that he never found the nerve to send.

\- -

Louis wakes up to the null blackness of Harry’s apartment, sweating and gasping, and Harry is there immediately, his lips starfire, voice soft and blurry. Because the woman in blue is still staring at them, because she’s the only witness, because she can’t blink her eyes or move her lips, Louis hisses _I hate you_ because it’s easier than _you scared the shit out of me and I thought I was all alone and that you would never come back._

Harry seems to understand, kisses the ridges of Louis' knuckles, whispers _I’m sorry_ because it’s easier than an explanation.

They lie there, motionless in Harry’s bed, until the stars no longer swim in Louis' eyes and all that remains is the stardust in both of their lungs, because it’s easier than saying I love you.

\- -

“I highly doubt that the dark is a reasonable thing to be afraid of,” Louis tells Harry a month later, their fingers entwined, shoulders touching, both studying the work of art displayed on the museum wall, and Harry replies easily, “Anything could snatch you during the night, Louis. Is this art better than mine?”

And reasonably enough, it isn’t, not in Louis' eyes, not at all, and the fact that Louis only sees true difference between Vincent van Gogh and Harry Styles's artwork, evidently, is because Louis knows Harry, knows his antics, knows that Harry is an insomniac and a tiny significance in Louis' entire universe and a crooked grin and a collarbone with paint constellations sleeping inside of it.

Quite frankly, his feelings for Harry can’t even begin to take shape, so Louis doesn’t meet his eye when he says no, doesn’t look away from the framed artwork of blue, black and yellow swirling on the wall when Harry’s fingers find a tighter grasp on Louis', doesn’t turn to Harry when Harry says, “I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

\- -

The funny thing about midnight is that the world goes silent, even if just for a few hours. For six hours, the world is uninterrupted, rotating gently on its axis, all ash, stars and planets. For six silent, unprecedented hours, the universe has nothing to say, nothing to give to those who wait.

Louis is standing on the tips of his toes, a paintbrush inbetween his fingers, when Harry finally says, “My mother died a year ago.” It’s two in the morning, and Harry is lying on his back, detached from his paints, studying Louis' crooked patterns of colour on the ceiling, and Louis says, “I’m sorry.”

Harry shrugs a shoulder, then remembers that Louis can’t see him, before adding, “Cancer is a bitch. I was in university at the time, so when I got the phone call, all I could think to do was vandalize everything, because what the fuck, Louis?” He lets his eyes fall shut, sets his jaw. “What did I do to make the universe upset? Nothing - I was an art major, I was happy, and I guess the universe didn’t like that, didn’t like that I was getting what I wanted.”

He says this like it’s something he’s been reciting in preparation for an audience, and Louis realizes that he probably has been, realizes that Harry’s been holding this in for too long, realizes that Harry is trying to lighten the weight on his shoulders. “I got suspended for a year - they told me it was generous of them - and I was sent to live with my family, but I was too fucked up, and they couldn’t handle me. I couldn’t even handle me,” Harry exhales, “so I came to live here.”

There’s a wave of purple tainting the ceiling, now, and Louis is satisfied, so he allows himself to fall back, collapses beside Harry, knocks their lips together. “Kinda glad I came here, though,” Harry mumbles after a minute of quiet, toying with a piece of Louis' paint-splattered hair, “because here is where I met you.”

Louis tells him, “You’re a sappy, corny piece of shit,” and Harry’s face breaks into a grin, his dimple poking out from its hiding place in his cheek and his teeth showing themselves in all their perfect angles, and Louis can’t help but think that he’s kinda glad Harry came to live here, too.

\- -

[01/12/15 19:00 PM] (Sent)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

I think you forgot something when you left for your classes

 

[01/12/15 19:02 PM] (Sent)  
To: Louis  
Cc/Bcc, From: Harry  
(No subject)

what

 

[01/12/15 19:05 PM] (Sent)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

Me

 

[01/12/15 19:06 PM] (Sent)  
To: Louis  
Cc/Bcc, From: Harry  
(No subject)

ur trash tbh

 

[01/12/15 19:07 PM] (Sent)  
To: Louis  
Cc/Bcc, From: Harry  
(No subject)

i miss you

 

[01/12/15 19:11 PM] (Sent)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

That’s why you need to come back for Christmas

 

[01/12/15 19:11 PM] (Saved in Drafts)  
To: Harry  
Cc/Bcc, From: Louis  
(No subject)

I lov

\- -

(Harry calls Louis on his cellphone for the first time on the fourteenth of December, and they talk until their voices go numb and the light turns dark and fuzzy outside.

Louis listens when Harry confesses that he was scared to come back that one time a month ago, and Louis rubs his hand over his face when Harry claims he has to hang up. Harry whispers three words into the phone that he probably thinks Louis hasn’t heard but he does, and now it’s all he can think about.

He doesn’t say it back, not at all, not until there’s the sound of the phone lines disconnecting, not until the Harry-shaped absence settles into his ribs, not until he’s wholly, truly alone, and only then does he whisper the three words into the dark of his empty apartment.)

\- -

Louis' kitchen smells of cookies and Christmas and warmth, and Harry stands beside him as they stare at the Christmas tree they’ve somehow managed to throw together in the time span of ten minutes. They don’t say anything, yet their hands are overlapping and the fairy lights they’ve stolen from Harry’s apartment are flickering in their eyes.

The cookies are displayed on the table, fresh with their scents lingering around the room, and the silence is shared between the two, unbroken until Harry whispers, “I’m kind of nervous to meet your family,” and Louis smiles, tells him not to worry, because if anybody should be worried it’s Louis, because Louis is the one with anxiety after midnight, Harry just likes to paint.

“We have about an hour to ourselves before they get here,” Louis says, his hand finding Harry’s waist and his lips finding the crook in his neck. When Louis touches him, Harry’s hands clutch at the back of Louis' reindeer-covered jumper desperately, as if he’s going to drown otherwise.

Louis' lips make pathways along the exposed spots of Harry’s skin, and they fall into each other, nearly bringing the other to the floor in a fuzzy haze before Harry shifts directions, inhales, says, “I need to tell you something,” and Louis shakes his head, brings his mouth to Harry’s ear, his lips ghosting skin and he replies, “Merry Christmas, I love you.”

There’s a pause and Harry begins punching Louis' shoulders, shrieks, “You completely stole my thunder, Tomlinson!” but when Louis looks at him, he’s smiling, so their lips align once again. Louis' hand finds it way to Harry’s spine, and they laugh, press their foreheads together, and Harry says, “Merry Christmas.”

Louis ruffles Harry’s messy curls, examines the red creeping across his cheeks, begs Harry to elaborate when he says, “Merry Christmas,” his tone suggesting and unhelpful, so Harry rolls his eyes and confesses, “I love you.”


End file.
